


Older Ficlets/Drabbles

by TanukiKyle



Category: Kingdom Hearts, Maximum Ride, Naruto
Genre: Awful Fic, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Older Fic, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-31
Updated: 2013-07-31
Packaged: 2017-12-22 00:39:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 17,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/906863
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TanukiKyle/pseuds/TanukiKyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Older ficlets and drabbles - carried over from fanfiction.net!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shiver

A single touch sends shivers down my spine,

A single press of his lips sends shockwaves though me,

It sounds almost like we're in love.

But no.

A single touch of sharp, ragged nails,

And a touch of lips that are chapped and bloody,

It is not love.

Not anymore.

This is not Sasuke.

It it horror,

And fear.

And a mind that has broken.

But still, I remember.

And as my claws drag against his skin,

I wonder if he remembers too.

The days when we were in love.

Not war.

I wonder if he remembers the nights.

I wonder if he remembers at all.

But then again.

Maybe it is better if he doesn't.

Because after all, I am not Naruto anymore.

I am Kyuubi.


	2. What am I fighting for?

We don't get to see each other much anymore.

It wasn't like before, when I was a chuunin, happily teaching kids, and Kakashi didn't have to feign his laziness. Now, both ANBU, fighting for our lives, things are so different. The only children I see are blood spattered, guts spilling. Kakashi is constantly on edge, his eye twitching. Both of us desperate to get to Kyuubi. It hurts. No longer will I ever see a sunshine-smile. No longer will that golden-haired boy beg me for Ramen. For he is no longer Naruto. Whatever shell he was before, when Sasuke left, snapped when…well, I cannot think of that. It pains me.

I touch my face, unsurprised to feel wetness. Although I have shut those memories away, my body longs to remember happier times. Uncaring about the wetness, I stand up, pulling my mask over my face. Kakashi always used to tease me about being a dolphin. I know now why – I was being promoted to ANBU. My codename? Take a guess.

He's a wolf. An odd sight, to see a wolf and a dolphin working together, usually so far apart in the world of nature. But nature has no place anymore. The world is in tatters. Kyuubi rages in the form of a golden-haired boy. Sasuke blackens the world with his childishly fuelled darkness. It rains where once was sand. Forest lie black. The apocalypse is here. Most civilians are dead. What is left of them hide out in caves, mountains, scrabbling for food and trying to survive. They cannot 'live' – only survive. Kakashi and I survive. We fight each minion of darkness. We save what children we can. But mostly, our time is spent chasing. Chasing the monster that ravages our world in the form of the boy I thought of as my son.

Why didn't I tell him that when he was alive? Kakashi wishes he had said things too. We both regret so much. But regret, I remind myself, solves nothing. No, what will solve this is – I pause. Nothing will solve this. Why must we fight, if to no end? We have no loved ones to save. All gone. We have no village to protect. All gone.

"The only thing we have is each other."

Kakashi stumbles in,those words on his lips, and it is clear on his face he has been thinking the same thing. I slide my mask up – I was just about to go search for him, but here he is. Our eyes meet, and we take in the others appearance. Blood-stained clothes. Tear-stained faces, tracks where they have been the only bit not marred by dirt or blood. And seeing that, I remember what I am fighting for. I'm fighting for him.

I'm fighting so we can live together again .Fighting so we can have somewhere to live that isn't a makeshift shelter. Fighting so I can cook his favourite meals. Fighting so I can see his smile.

Fighting for him.


	3. Remnants

e sits, immobile  
Washed out blue walls so pale they appear grey.  
A shirt so threadbare and well-washed it is faded to a dull greyness.  
Once blond spiky hair is now limp, with barely a touch of color.  
Cerulean eyes are shut, only grey, grey eyelids showing.

Matron looks in the room,  
At the boy who doesn't move, eat or speak.  
His older brother comes sometimes. A steel-eyed, brown haired boy,  
Who always seems to be in the company of an equally quiet teen.

Commands are met with precision, movement with nothing behind it.  
Commands to eat are met with nothing.  
Commmands to talk, with silence.

He lives in his own world, a world Matron could never understand.  
First he is fed by not allowing him to do anything except sit.  
This soon fails – all he wants to do is sit in his own mind.  
The world is too void of color for him.  
Everything is grey.

First, he is told he will be forcefed.  
There is no response, so they hook him up to a drip. Grey fluid flowing into greyer skin.  
The next time the brother comes, he is older, and the battle shows clearly on his face. A younger brother comes with him, the silent boy's younger brother.

His blue eyes are soft with tears, spiky brown hair goes in every direction.  
A silver-haired boy stays with him.

There is still no response. They give him a monitor. His brain pulses with emotion, but none gets through.  
He stays locked in his own world, a world of emerald and rubies, of soft hair and amused eyes.  
This boy is nothing. Family comes and goes. Nothing.

This boy is only a word. A single word, spoken in his last breath.

"Axel."


	4. Sightless

When I first lost my sight, the overwhelming emotion was panic. Can you imagine how it feels? To lose everything? Colour, the faces of those you love the place where you've grown up – not that that was that much of a loss in my case. I didn't want to see the school, but not seeing it was worse. Not being able to see the scientists, not being able to see what they were doing, or know when they were about to inject you so you could relax your muscles….but worst of all, was losing Fang. No longer was I his buddy, no longer the one who would gaze into his eyes when he cried, alone from all the others, so no one would know except me.

That was the worst of all, the first few days, when everyone apologised, when Fang kept away. I felt so alone. So, so alone. Darkness was absolute. I couldn't feel anything. It was as if I was numb. Maybe the scientists had done it, injected a substance that wouldn't make me feel anything, so they could observe the effects of the absence of stimulation. More likely, it was the loss I felt.

It got better. It would never be fixed, even when I started to see colours, and see on white backgrounds. Nothing was the same, but it got better. I began to rely on my other senses…and Fang. He was the one who helped me. He was the one who led me round new places, who calmed me softly when I began to panic. He was the one, late that night when I was crying, who took my hands in his own, and spoke softly.

'I'm sorry.' He hadn't said it before. In fact, he hadn't said anything. He had just left me alone. But that in itself was more painful. But this. This was a pain I hadn't felt before. This was a pain of loss…but more of love. I began to cry harder, silent tears streaming down my cheeks. Fang brushed them away, his rough fingers, callused, burnt, broken from the scientists, felt so soft against my cheeks. 'I shouldn't have said anything.' He said, and left. I was choking up so hard; I couldn't tell him my feelings.

And so, we continued like this. Fang silent, brooding, Max the strong leader. And I began to see a growing attraction between the two. And it hurt. It hurt so bad. So I began to hang out with Gazzy, spending more and more time with the young boy, putting all my energy into bombs, and electrics, and anything like that, anything that was dangerous, to keep my mind from wandering to the soft touch of fang's hands, the time when we had been so close. From that day on, I would not cry. I refused to cry. I was the joker, the one to cheer other people up. From that day on, no one would have to cheer me up.

But it's hard. To lock your feelings away and keep them there. And occasionally, my feelings would slip out. A single tear perhaps, would roll down my cheek. Or perhaps I would brush my hand, oh-so-gently over Fang's, and pretend I hadn't noticed. Or maybe, when we flew together, I would time my wing beats so our feathers would brush against each other on the down stroke. It was never for long. Fang soon moved away, to fly near max. And that hurt. I told myself to stop, to distance myself from Fang completely. But I couldn't. So many times, I contemplated flying away from the flock, to live with the eagles we had once seen, or even going back to the school. At least there, I knew, I had the escape of death, and there would be no more mental anguish, because my body would be screaming too loud.

And that's where it started. The self-harm I mean. I didn't do it noticeably, of course, at least at first. Maybe just letting an Eraser hit me once more than necessary, or when they had moved the furniture, going crash onto the ground so my body would cry out in pain. I made sure to cry out too though, and to yell at whoever moved the furniture. I wasn't stupid enough to break normal routine. But soon enough, by body was covered in cuts and bruises, scrapes and grazes. And it felt so good. I could concentrate on that, and forget about everything else. But then, we stopped getting attacked, and we settled into a permanent home, and no one moved the furniture.

For the first couple of days, it was okay. I could deal. Everyone else was so happy, so I tried to get in the mood. But it didn't work. Fang and Max grew closer daily. And then I found a razor blade. At first it was just small scratches. Tiny little lines across my chest that barely drew blood, and healed in a couple of days. But soon enough, that wasn't enough. I began to cut deeper, and deeper, the cutting spread from arms to legs to chest to face. At first, it was a big step, cutting my face, feeling the blade drag near my eyes. But then I realised. No one would ever love me. I was a blind freak, marred by scars and wings. My wings. I hated them. They marked me as different. I began to saw at them with the blade, crying and yelling. Everyone was out, no one could see me. Or so I thought. And then I heard his voice. My unknown torturer, the one who had drove me to do this.

'I-Iggy?' He spoke, and I swear, I could see the anguish in his face. Then I turned on him, clutching the blade so tightly in my hand it cut into my palm. "Shut up! Shut up! You don't know anything! You never felt anything for me, and you were, are, my whole world. So just shut up ok-'I never got to finish my sentence, as soft lips pressed against my own. Callused, broken, burnt. But as soft as those fingers had been all those years ago. I hiccoughed in shock, and began to cry.

And so did he. Tough, unbreakable, straight fang began to cry. And we clung to each other through the iron and salt, through the blood and tears. And AS my wings began to burn with pain, he was the one to apply the salve and bandages. And as we lay in bed because the others were going to be late back – that's why fang had flown back to tell me, he traced each scar with his fingers, not shaming, or blaming, just accepting what he had done to me, and I hade done to him.

And as the other came back, that's were they found us. Bloodstained, tearstained, but so happy, for each other, or ourselves….for life.


	5. Spiderwebs

Gaara's touches are feather-light.

He is terrified, Naruto can tell, because his own heart is beating just as fast.

But Gaara's touches are like spiderwebs too.

Building a structure between him and Naruto,

That's beautiful, terrifying,

And stronger than steel.


	6. No Such Thing

Shikamaru spent years drilling it into Chouji that anyone who judged him by weight is stupid. And that a girl should like him for all of his wonderful qualities - Shikamaru had spent lots of time listing them – and all of him. That she shouldn't try to change him, any of him. He has spent a lifetime, over and over trying to show Chouji that he is worth something. So when Chouji turns them down, one after another, Shikamaru appears.

"You aren't still hung up on that weight thing, are you?" Leaning against the door in his Chuunin vest, the lazy genius speaks in a slow drawl around the cigarette in his mouth. His eyes take in the messy state of Chouji's normally immaculate room, and more worryingly, the bag of uneaten crisps.

"I like men."

Shikamaru had planned for this.

"As long as you don't like the Uchicha bastard, that's fine. Ino'd never forgive you."

Chouji snorts, but it is a weak imitation of the humor of his friend.

"There are other gay shinobi."

Shikamaru has a plan for this too. He will make his teammate happy, no matter what. Find him a nice young man, if that is his preference. He will make him happy because he was unable to do it for himself.

"There are-" He begins again, but the statement dies on his lips, when Chouji is no longer a lump in the bed, but standing before him, anguish in his eyes.

"Not who lust after their teammate."

This is something Shikamaru has not planned for. It throws a wrench into everything, all his plans. Still, he replies.

"Yes there is."

Chouji snorts, and there is no amusement in it at all as he stares at the floorboards, frame shaking with unshed tears. And for once in his life, Shikamaru throws plans to the wind, and lets emotion and not strategy guide him.

"There's me for starters."

And Chouji looks up.

And suddenly, Shikamaru has a new plan.

A plan that involves him.

And Chouji.

And happily ever after.


	7. Akatsuki

This is what I wasnted.

All those times I went chasing.

Chasing after the one person who had seen me.

Truly seen me,

And not cared.

Who had accepted me.

Like a brother.

And not cared about any of it.

Not a single one of my secrets.

Everyone else was so fragile about me.

Like treading on glass.

But he wasn't.

He didn't care about Kyuubi,

About the hatred,

The rape,

The abuse.

Any of it.

But it's only dawning on me now,

That whilst he had me,

That maybe I never had him.

That maybe the person I saw was what everyone wanted him to be, who I wanted him to be.

And not who he was.

That all the time when I thought he was okay,

He had secrets too.

And I couldn't save him from them.

But in the end…It doesn't matter.

Because I'm dying.

And usually it would hurt.

But Gaara is here.

And suddenly….

Suddenly I am picking up all the signals.

And suddenly I am wondering.

When did chasing after Sasuke become duty?

And when did my heart start wanting him instead?

But right now I am concerned with something else.

The fact that Gaara is seeing all of me, and I all of him.

And neither of us care about that.

No, what we care about is not that.

Or the bijuu being ripped out of us.

Or the pain.

No.

The entirety of us is focused on our hands.

And even though we're dying.

We go with clasped hands and a smile.


	8. Chapter 8

Gaara doesn't mind sleep because he has nightmares.

He minds sleep because when he wakes up, it crashes back down that nightmares or not it was probably better.

Naruto doesn't mind sleeping either. It's not that different from being awake. Over time, he begins to hate the period of waking up.

That tiny fuzzy moment where he doesn't remember is a terrifying addiction.

He finds he can replicate it by not eating, or by losing too much blood.

He finds doing both together gives a fuzziness that lasts much longer.

Gaara pops caffeine pills, staving off sleep until that moment he collapses, and the dreams are lucid and horrendous, but they are still better.

After the chuunin exams, they exchange methods to forget.

Gaara remarks that if you get sunstroke, you dream vividly.

Naruto tells him you can get delightfully fuzzy-headed by asphyxiation.

The next time they meet, Naruto tells Gaara that if you get cold enough, you feel like a ghost.

Gaara tells Naruto that sensory deprivation is beautiful.

They are smoothing a veneer over cracks.

Gaara confides in Naruto that he can't stand the feel of sand.

Naruto smiles bitterly, and says it is better than the feel of fists.

They are starting something wrong by societies definition.

Naruto tells Gaara that he likes being called monster.

Gaara concurs. It is easier if you don't have to pretend to be human.

Naruto laughs, and it is a harsh, grating sound.

He says after seeing how others act, he is glad that he is not.

Gaara wonders what they are.

Naruto takes his hand, and presses their chests together, and they listen to the sound of heartbeats.

We are the world.

Encased in sand and blood and hurt.

We are the world.

They swap methods in other ways now. Naruto presses into the other's neck, waiting until his lips turn blue. Gaara sends a shock of electricity into Naruto's neurones at the same time he releases.

They collapse on each other, giggling fruitlessly, a cacophony of madness.

Sometimes they try something else.

They tear not with fists and claws but with kisses and thrusts.

When they are done, they curl round each other, chests heaving with words unspoken, uneeded. Their heartbeats beat in time to a rythmn once forgotten.

Suna burns, glass forming, bubbling in an unnatural flame, settling into twisted shapes. Ocassionally a figure is caught inside the glass. Preserved instead of cinders.

Konoha is crumbling. Everything degenerates. People look with horror as they dissolve.

Dreams are shared in breathless whispers as they meet.

It was a game at first, pretending. But now it is a dance, movements perfected. Shout, be obnoxious. Be calm, unfeeling.

When they are together, Naruto is solemn, marked with vicious mockeries of grins and blood-tinged smiles. Gaara is wild, unhinged. They collapse together, hands clenched over chests. Heartbeats entwined.

It was inevitable that one day they would miss a step in the dance. Gaara laughs at a Kage meeting. Naruto snarls at Sakura.

This time when they meet there is blood and fire and sand and war and pain.

And as yellow hair glints in the sunlight, there is an answering shock of red.

This time when they meet there is blood and fire and sand and war and pain.

Blue eyes meet green and they grin.

Konoha burns and Suna crumbles.

And finally they sleep unworried. Because now the world fits.

It too is encased in sand and blood.

We are the world.

And the world is broken.


	9. Chapter 9

Really, even if you didn't know about the backstory, it was quite funny. If you did, though, it was down-right hilarious.

Team Seven never applied for a name-change. Actually, they were quite vehemently opposed to the idea, really. Because sure, Seven was just a number, and it was meant for a genin team, and they needed it back, because the fact there was always a team seven missing from the year groups was annoying, and so on and so forth, for a thousand mundane reasons that made perfect sense until you remembered that Team Seven was Naruto and Sakura and Sasuke. And Sai and Kakashi and sometimes Yamato too, but mostly just the trio. And Naruto was foolishly sentimental, and Sasuke was just possessive, and Sakura had a hard enough job getting them to do more important things, she wasn't going to argue about a name.

Still, they do say if a ninja gains a name it means they're important. The Yellow Flash. The Sannin.

Kamaitachi was definitely not what they had in mind though.

I mean, technically they weren't. But technically the Sannin weren't Sannin either, just crazy jounin who had special clearance. And it wasn't as if they could chase every enemy down and tell them pick a different fucking name, because itachi makes Sasuke even more of a bastard, and the fact it's a youkai makes Kyuubi pissy, and the fact that it's supposed to be three brothers gets on sakura's feminist streak. They try for a bit though, but eventually 'Kamaitachi' is a common moniker.

It is, inevitably, Naruto who brings it up first.

Admittedly it was bound to come up, but Sakura thinks perhaps that in the middle of that post-sex haze (she knows the medical term is post-coital, and that it's called afterglow and she can replicate the effects or subdue them with a few choice micromedical jutsu, but damnit this is her fucking sex, it's been the first time in a week and medical jargon can bloody stay out of it) where Sasuke finally cuddles and Sakura feels like a delightful pile of jelly, is a bad time.

"Kamaitachi were supposed to be brothers, yeah?"

They would warn him off with a growl or something, but they feel far, far too much like comfortable squishy jelly.

"So does that make us incestuous?"

And suddenly Naruto finds himself on the cold floor outside of the bedroom, two furious sulking lovers in bed WITHOUT HIM, and still he grins.

He's getting them over the brother issues. Slowly. Because he might be on the cold floor outside the bedroom, but there's no kunai or bruises, and there's a suspiciously sex-smelling blanket.

That, and he knows they've both approved the name-change that he left on the drawer, and which he's going to post in the morning.

For something that wasn't their choice….it's a pretty cool name actually.

But he swears, the next time Konohamaru greets them as the three musketeers, he's going to pull the knocking down, Sasuke can cut him up, and Sakura can heal him so it still hurts, and he'll be able to deal with Kamaitachi because in a way it's true.


	10. Chapter 10

It's only us left now.

Kyuubi hunted them all. Vicious, bloody, murder.

I can't bring myself to care.

I don't know why he keeps us, why he doesn't eat us.

Sometimes I wish he would.

But he doesn't. Even if we attack, he sits and takes it.

Waits till we're tired.

Picks us up, puts us back.

Licks us with a tongue that burns with fire.

Hums as the world burns.

I don't know how many of us there are.

I can't tell.

We're all a mash of semi-naked bodies.

Kyuubi's chakra makes us helpless, blood-soaked pressure bending our perception.

I recognise faces occasionally.

Or eyes, or hands.

A movement, gesture.

But the knowledge slips from my mind like a silver minnow in a stream, flashing bright before slipping away.

The world is burning, weeping.

And the monster who orchestrates it like a symphony croons to humans in his den.

Sanity isn't an issue for anyone anymore.

The humans are gone. Fading pockets of resistance, ash in a breeze.

The demons are aware that their leader is crazy, that the kyuubi has been tainted by a sunshine child.

Neither wants to admit the fact.

And so Kyuubi sings as the world burns, and if anyone could remember that it was a song that a dandelion-headed boy would sing to himself at night when he stopped bleeding. Well. They might wonder about how sometimes the Kyuubi's eyes flash blue.


	11. Shark Week

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is based of Asuka's Lace and Strawberries 'verse!

Mei peered at the bush.

And then peered again.

And then for a third time.

"…Tousan?"

Naruto squeaked, and made violent shushing notions towards her.

She raised an eyebrow and said, very calmly and with an air of superiority that could have made either Kou-niisan or Inoko-neesan very, very proud.

"You can't hide in a bush if you are wearing bright orange."

Then, thoughtfully,

"Hikari tried that the other day. Admittedly, it was when Hina-kaasan was looking for her after she put paint-bombs in Kou's bathroom and helped Akari make a trap with chewing gum so when he came out he got it all stuck in his hair. But I still say it was fair because he told me that the monsters had moved from the futon closet to under my bed. We told her that she would be better running like me or getting Iruka like Akari, but then we got caught anyway 'cause Iruka knows when Akari's being a buttface, and Ino-kaasan runs really, really fast."

Naruto patiently waited till she was done, then stuffed her under the arm that wasn't already holding Teru and ran for it. Along the way, he picked up the other triplets and Shou because they had that freaky I-know-where-you-are-ALWAYS thing and Shou was a stalker (Hinata said it was probably the Byakugan manifesting itself, but Naruto was pretty sure it was just a cool-yet-creepy triplets thing and that Shou was a stalker), Kou because he was coming home from the academy, caught sight of them and presumed they were going on an adventure, Inoko because if Kou was going somewhere, then she had to be there to lead (the squabble was quashed by Kura saying that did they notice tousan looked funny, and then there was a whole other more interesting conversation topic.) Kura because he was with Inoko, and then Taka was at Iruka's anyway when they got there.

"Iruka-senseeeeeiiii!"

Iruka, as a teacher, had a score of students that still called him Iruka-sensei, even if they weren't in his class anymore. However, he only knew one student that did it in that particular tone, that particular volume, and was accompanied by a pack of almost-entirely dark-haired kids. He absent-mindedly swiped an aspirin, dry-swallowed it, and with Taka still balanced on his hip (he had picked that trick up very early), opened the door.

"Naruto I agreed to watch Taka. I didn't –" And then he stopped, took in Naruto's expression, connected it with the date, and wordlessly stepped aside. The kids flooded into his house and then into the back yard, with various shouts of glee or little smirks. He plopped Taka onto the grass too, and went to make tea. Naruto amused his son by using his wind-based chakra to ruffle his hair, and vaguely watched the rest of the kids out of the corner of his eye. Beh, Inoko was a decent medic, she'd fix anything they managed to do scrape or bump-wise, and nobody other than Kou and Kura could use chakra yet except her, and they'd all been banned from experimenting with it after a particularly violent explosion that had wrecked Mother's medicinal herb garden. Naruto had vehemently denied all knowledge, and then been told on by Inoko. Hence the swift kidnapping (was it kidnapping if it was your own child?) this time.

When Iruka returned with the tea for himself and a pop for Naruto (every time he got fed tea, he pulled a face at 'icky leaf juice', and if he did it in front of the kids, some of them would no doubt copy.)

Naruto pulled a face. "Sugar-free, Iruka-sensei? Really?"

Iruka gave him a look.

The I-am-your-teacher-look.

Naruto looked suitably admonished. Sometimes, Iruka was very, very sure that despite being a father and a pack-leader and all the other wonderful things he was, he still didn't eat properly. This suspicion was confirmed whenever he went round for dinner and caught the blond trying to slyly destroy his vegetables when nobody was looking.

Iruka tapped the top of his mug thoughtfully, casting a worried glance to Naruto.

"Well, what's the tally this time?"

"Sasuke-bastard is going to need another mission the amount of chocolate they've been eating, I've fixed three walls, the hospital's put Sakura on leave, Ino has caught three criminals and they surrendered BEFORE they got to Ibiki, Hinata has bashed out three political issues because the council were too scared to say no, and Saki is wearing the OTHER boots."

Iruka winced.

Naruto groaned as he drunk his pop.

"I swear. If I knew that if women live together their periods coincide, I would have made everyone get separate houses."

Iruka stifled a snort.


	12. Airport

The trio always caused scenes when they went places. As celebrities of no little notoriety, combined with their stunning looks, they were hard to ignore. Most of the scenes were to do with fans – or, failing that, were caused by Naruto. Many news programs commented on the fact that Naruto was a bumbling ball of accidents, and Gaara never set a foot wrong – how composed he was, how he seemed unruffled by everything, how skilfully Sasuke always covered for Naruto if something went wrong.

Of course, the news never really show the whole story.

Manhandling his semi-conscious partner, Sasuke groaned as he was stopped by a security guard.

"Sir?"

The beefy security guard eyed the pair with suspicion.

"Inebriated passengers are not allowed on the plane."

Gaara lifted his head up, eyes unfocused, but his voice still sharp as a razor blade.

"I am not drunk. I do not drink, it is the creature of the….Sasuke, word."

"….The phrase you want is demon drink."

"Yes. Drinking is…is…."

"Abhorrent?"

"Yes."

Exhausted by this effort, Gaara slumped further into Sasuke, who groaned as the security didn't step to the side.

"Please, move aside. Kankuro is going to KILL us, and that'll be a blessing compared to Temari and Itachi!"

Usually Sasuke would not resort to anything like this, but he was tired, he needed to get Gaara on the plane before the drugs kicked in and knocked him out,

"Sir, I cannot allow you onto the plane-"

Gaara's head suddenly snapped up, as one of the words kicked in.  
His usual death-glare was somewhat ruined by the fact his world was swimming and he couldn't focus (and the fact he was aiming at Sasuke's ear), but the resident duckbutt-head tightened noticeably anyway.

"Plane? Sasuke, are we at the airport?"

"No."

Sasuke had a beautiful voice. If you were prone to dramatic descriptions (as many press were), you could describe it as silky-smooth, dark as sin, deep as chocolate and as easy to lose yourself in, or many other metaphors. It was the perfect voice for lying – if you didn't know that whenever he lied his fingers twitched, and if those fingers weren't holding you up.

A silence broke out for all of three seconds, the security guard radioing discreetly for backup whilst looking at the two loonies in front of him. If they'd have been dressed normally perhaps, with brushed hair and not smudged with dirt, he might have been willing to listen – as they were, half in pajamas and unbrushed, unwashed, they resembled nothing more than a pair of crazies.

After said three seconds, what could be considered 'all hell' broke loose. Gaara began struggling and trying to get out of Sasuke's arms. Sasuke, his limbs strangely delicate for all his power, swore as he tried to hold onto the slippery red-head. The Security guard drew his baton as Gaara began flailing violently in Sasuke's arms, then backup arrived.

Sasuke hissed through his teeth, ice-pack pressed to his head. Gaara was asleep next to him, the traquillisers having finally kicked in.

Naruto sat with his hands clapped over his mouth, trying desperately to contain his mirth as he looked at his two partners in the holding cells. He fist-bumped the security guard as he entered to get them out, and let it out.

"Oh god I love you two but you'd be dead without me."

Sasuke hissed at him, but really he couldn't help but agree.


	13. Wordless

ometimes you don't have to say anything.

Which is something you'd never apply to him, really.

A constant babble, noise lapping at your eardrums, screeching squaking.

I'm alive.

I'm alive.

Because if you react, if you notice that he's there, then he's still here. Hanging on.

Praise is nicer than punishment.

But punishment is better than silence.

Does the noise hurt him too?  
I think it does.

The noise hurts him like the silence hurts me.

And as we fight, and I scream and words come pouring out, and he doesn't, just sits there, we understand.

A wordless understanding. Not a promise, because we both know everyone dies and everyone hurts and that nothing is forever.

But a wordless moment is sometimes all you need.


	15. Sakura-Chan

Sakura has always been sure.

Maybe she didn't show it. Maybe, every time Naruto made a pass at her in public, it was received with a furious blush, and an attempt at violence. But inside, inside she knew. She knew who cared for her, and it wasn't just the one she showed. Who had pushed her to do what she was proud of, just so she could feel useful. Who did something that could get himself killed, so she could see his Sakura-chan happy. Who'd helped that same Sakura-chan, much changed much stronger, but who still cried afterwards, drag Sasu-bastard home.

Sakura hated that name. When Naruto had been drinking too much (and that meant far too much, because it took a lot to make him drunk, A LOT.), and his hands strayed to the medic sash around his fellow jounin's waist, he would slur his words, and call Sakura that juvenile nickname again and throw insults at Sasuke (though, she had her doubts that it wasn't just a secret macho I-love-you code.). She wasn't even sure why the jounin liked to call her it. I mean, she was pretty sure Naruto knew it pissed her off, so why did he use it? Mind you, he did a lot of things that pissed her off. Like making passes at her in public. Noone else knew. Noone else was supposed to know! Noone could know…

But right now, she didn't care.

Right now, as they wandered into the park, and up into the flat they shared, too small for three jounin, too small for a demon a traitor and a girl who'd got mixed up in it all, too small for all those issues under the same roof, all that mattered was Sasuke's dark eyes watching Naruto's warm hands on her skin, his cool touch to the small of her back and Naruto's neck, all that mattered was the promise of intimacy, the promise of sex was good, but it was afterwards, when Naruto had to be touching them both, a too-warm blanket that meant all others were discarded, when Sasuke was too tired to stop them snuggling into him, and when, if Sakura waited a little for the others to sleep first, their breaths synchronised and she could feel hers doing it too..

and if she cried a little well then that was just proof she was still Sakura-chan after all.


	16. Rebirth

Shuukaku is silent. Somehow, it's worse. Than before, I mean, when he was screaming, and I was crying. Gaara of the Desert, crying. You'd have never thought that, would you? Mind you….If you're the average ninja, you probably wouldn't have thought a lot of things. Like did you know, demons have mates? And if denied their mate – for example, summoned at opposite ends of the globe, they go crazy? And did you know that jinchuuriki – or 'monsters' have mates too? And that once in a million millions, the jinchuuriki and the bijuu have the same mate.

You've probably twigged, of course, if you're close to one of us. Kakashi got there first, I think. Or maybe Iruka. Possibly because they were having a similair relationship. It was Kankuro, next. Kankuro, I hear you splutter incoherently. Yes. My brother, more perceptive – for all his faults, he certainly cares. After that, Naruto and I – Naruto and I.

I double over suddenly, stopping mid-jump, falling and allowing the branches to hit me. Shuukaku is not guarding me. He understands. He understands. That the pain is needed, that if not another type of pain will cripple us both. Not a word, not a sound escapes us, as we are falling. One of us – I cannot tell which of us does it, reaches out an arm, catching our body. No word passes in thanks, but we both know we cannot harm ourselves seriously. No, we must keep moving. We have to save them.

In Suna, panic rages as the Kazekage is declared missing.

In Konoha, a smaller panic ensues as Naruto's apartment explodes.

It takes a few hours and Temari and Shikamaru to put things together.

They approach Kankuro and Kakashi respectively.

The panic worsens.

The pair – nobody can bring themselves to name them – have taken holidays before.

One of them has even pulled pranks.

But not like this.

Not like this.

It has been three days.

Gaara is still running.

He doesn't want to think about him anymore.

He can't.

Instead, he focuses on Sasuke.

And Itachi.

Shuukaku snarls at their names. He knows too. They did this. They stole him. Our sunshine. He sang me that song once. You are my sunshine, my only sunshine. Except, he was singing it to me. That's not right. I think I told him that, at the time. Or did I? I don't remember, any more.

It's like my life is fading away, droplet by droplet. Droplet.

.

Someone is staring at me.

It's only then I realise I'm on the floor, and the eyes above me are looking at me in concern.

"It's the Kazekage! Tsunade-sama! Somethings wrong!"

Indeed. Something is definitely wrong.

But for some reason, I don't know what.

I feel empty.

I can't feel anything.

Droplet by Droplet, blood seeps onto the floor.

It doesn't register, any more, when Itachi touches me. It doesn't even register when Sasuke tears out my eyes. They grow back, of course. But Kyuubi doesn't appear to register it. Neither do I. Both of us are locked in something else. The chakra drains, is repleshined. The pain comes and goes, as does the Uchicha brothers interest.

Something is wrong. But I can't tell whether it's me or not.

Is something wrong?  
I can't tell.

Sasuke is here….and Itachi.

Is that it? They don't usually come together.

No, that's not it.

Maybe it's the expressions on their faces.

Something different about them.

Something…afraid.

"What's happening! Something wrong! Itachi!"

Indeed. Something is definitely wrong.

But you know, I can't put my finger on it.

Do I even have fingers any more?  
I can't feel them.

I can't feel anything.


	17. Demonkin

His wings snap out, black and glossy, not a single feather out of place. Red eyes, as demonic as my own, spin with the sharingan. Growling loudly, I thrash, tails, teeth, claws all trying to remove the strange bindings. It does nothing however, even when I push my chakra into the bonds – a bad idea it turns out, as they tighten further, causing a pained howl. It takes me a second to realise it comes from my own throat.

And when I do, I snarl. The Raven demon is sneaking closer, no, that's the wrong word. Prowling, stalking, they would be more apt. Stalking his prey. I shiver angrily. I am noone's prey! But…I am powerless here, bound by strong threads of some chakra-reinforced substance, bound by the strength of the other's eyes, even though they cannot truly affect me. I, the kyuubi-kit, am immune to bloodline limits. My snarling does nothing, for I am unable to lace it with the power that would keep him away, unable to do anything against the Raven who had once been my brother.

He trails a claw down the side of my face, tearing the skin. My eyes narrow slightly, but I allow him no noise, no wince, no nothing. I know from previous experiences it will only make it hurt more later. My face is still contorted into a snarl, and unable to resist, I snap at his slender fingers. He chuckles. "Oh Naru. Still feisty?" He leans in, breathing his sweet carrion-scented breath over me. Instinctively, I shudder. "Let me fix that." He plunges his hand into my back, laced with electricity, chidori. I scream. I might be able to push past the ripping of my cheek, but this is agony incarnate – each nerve ending overloaded as the skin is obliterated, then electricity pushed down it. The worst pain, however, comes when he removes his hand. Arching my back, I let out another scream, soundless this time, body in too deep to make any outward expression.

Crack. My head slams back against the floor, as I sob, my healed back free of pain now, but the regeneration is excruciating. Sasuk-No. The raven smiles. I will not think of him as Sasuke any longer. This is no longer Sasuke. Sasuke was my brother. This thing, is a monstrosi-"Ngh!" I flinch, but this time not in pain. It's coming. No-nononononono, is all I have time to think before the heat takes me.

All demons have a mate. A true soul, bound to them. The problem is, the more powerful the demon, the stronger the need for that specific mate. Most demons never meet their mate. Most never need to – A partnership with another demon is enough for them, enough to take away the excess chakra, and stop this. Heat. In the human world, only females get it, and only animals. But then again..in this world, we can all bear children, and we all bear animal traits. Heat is what happens when a strong demon's mate is denied to them. And I am the epitome of strong.

The Kyuubi. The nine-tails. The strongest breed of demon in the whole Nether. And I am the last one. My chakra brims with power, and I long for my mate. My heat is encompassing, overwhelming, as the excess chakra starts to damage my system, the heat takes over, begging someone to take me, to make me come, to pound me into the ground and meld their chakra with mine, so that I don't die and take the last of the Kyuubi with me. For that is what it will come to, if I do not find my mate. I will die. But right now, it is the furthest thing from my mind. Right now my mind is not my own, twisted, contorted by desire, by need, by want.

And whilst the little bit of me screams no, whilst it begs my chakra to stop, to remember this is the Raven, the one we've been fighting to escape for so long..it doesn't listen. And I am overwhelmed.

And suddenly I am panting and squirming, begging the Raven, begging him to take me. "N-nah!" As he pressed a cold hand against my now feverish back, I press into it, desperately, needily. My eyes, no longer red, are blue, glossed over by lust. Blue..the colour that should be only reserved for my mate to see. His eyes however, still spin red. He chuckles. "Why Naru-kun…eager?" Usually I would scowl, snarl, snap at that nickname, tear into his flesh, crunch his spine beneath my teeth until the bitter fluid spilled across my tongue. But now it only makes me hotter, the chakra coils are burning, burning! I wriggle as much as I can against the bonds, that bind ankle to thigh, arms behind back, and that collar round my neck to the complicated knots. Moaning as the hand follows my spine, hands clenching as the thin fingers, spindly almost, trail over the immobilized digits.

I want to say stop teasing. I want to shout fuck off. But all I can do is make incoherent noises and squirm under my most hated one's touch. Tears flow down my cheeks. I want my mate! I want him! I want him! And my vision blurs, blackens, I relax. This is the blessing. When heat comes, I don't have to feel Raven, not like the other times he takes me. Forcefully. Bloody. Unwillingly. I feel my mate. Spindly, callused fingers, rough and hurting, change to soft caresses from slender hands. Waxy flesh goes to healthy, pale but warm. And the beat of ebony wings changes to a swish of a fluffy tail. I squirm, and I hear a chuckle, but the chakra of mine shifts it from a insane laugh to a compassionate giggle, before the first one even registers.

I want to see you! I cry out, but not verbally. I cry out with my soul. Yes, Demons have souls. Demons…so misunderstood. Yes, there are evil ones among us. But there are good ones too. It's like this. Humanity. The middle ground. Gypsies, the descendants of angels, who were the emotionless beings. And demons..the epitome of emotion. But when you have so much emotion…it turns sour. Love, lust, jealously, all muddled into a big ball labelled hatred. Like Sas-Raven. And as each thrust pounds into me, not caring for my own pleasure, nor my shaft being rubbed painfully against the floor, my own emotions run riot. Loneliness. Pain. Desire.

I cry freely. I want him! I want him! Yet all that comes out of my mouth is incoherency, and as the blessed release comes, as my chakra is stolen, not absorbed, as it is ripped away from me, I scream, and the illusion of my mate is broken. Yet again, I see nothing of him, save for a flash of sandy golden fur. As Raven pulls out of my bloodied hole, as he carves into my flesh with those claws, as he walks away, I return. My eyes return to crimson. The anger returns to my soul. I thrash.

I carve patterns in the floor with my elongated canines. I carve words into Raven's soul with insults and hatred. He simply laughs and leaves.

I am angry…so angry. I thrash.

Wait.

…..I thrash?

Where have the bonds gone!?

Elation.

Freedom.

Running.

Tails spread out behind me, ears flat against my head. Orange fur is bloodstained, matted, grubby from months of imprisonment. Only one thought races through my head.

'MATE.'

I am running, and running. I don't know how long I've been running for. But suddenly I am running no longer. I am falling. And my tails! No, my tails! Come back! My ears! They are dissipating, fading, and I wonder; where am I, where is this?

Where is my mate?

Colourless eyes snap open. I breathe out. "Hinata!" She too, awakes, equally clear eyes clouded with worry. "I feel it!" We can both feel it. A demon, crossing the borders to the mortal world. We, the last defenders, cannot allow it. We push back, but it is futile. The demon is almost through, and nothing can stop him. Hinata pauses, and I look towards her.

"N-Neji." Her voice is stuttering, a nervous habit I thought she had broken millennia ago.  
"Neji! He's not doing this!"

And then I flinch. I realise this too. The demon isn't pushing through to kill people. Isn't pushing through on a conscious desire. He is being led here, drawn here. Which means only one thing – we've missed one. Somewhere ,on this earth, is a demon. And we missed him. We stand, almost united in panic. Even with years of disuse, our celestial bloodline keeps our bodies strong. Momentarily, I study my form. It is toned, pale, and black hair pools at my naked waist – there is no use for clothing in stasis. My sister too stands naked, her body as toned as my own. We are fighters.

She to the left, I to the right. We go through the processes, the closets, the preparation that will allow us to step into the human world again. We are clothed traditionally, but modern enough so we do not stand out. Our hair is cut – kept long, but made sure to be smooth instead of ragged, unkempt. The only thing that doesn't change is our eyes, pale, pupilless orbs giving the appearance of blindness, when in fact it is the opposite – we see too much. We see far too much.

Hinata visited a monument once. A monument to a war. She saw it all. Every ghost, every unsettled boy, every frightened man. We stay away from them now. We can sense spiritual hotspots, sense the frightened, confused emotions. So unless we know we can help them, or the chakra level is beginning to become dangerous or visible, we stay away. It hurts too much.

We started off as emotionless beings. But over time, as the bloodline diluted, more and more emotion crept upon us. And we discovered pain, and hurt. We discovered joy, and love. But to those who have never felt, the light is so much more acute. And so we wrap ourselves up in uncaring demeanors. We have to. Otherwise this would be painful.

It would be painful to look upon the demon, who looks so much like an abused child, whose posture is pained and protective. Whose golden hair is matted, bloodstained. Meagre clothes – a simple pair of neon-oranges shorts, are tattered, torn. He looks so lost. He looks so much like Minato. But I will not allow this to distract me. Hinata's eyes wobble – she too has seen the resemblance to Minato. But this will not be allowed.

I take her hand, and I look into her eyes. There is no verbal communication, not even a twitch of the face. But I let my eyes be calm, and with a deep, shuddering breath, she calms her own stormy pools. The deadly heir to the Hyuuga, the last of the angelic bloodline, is back. The emotionless, the strong.

It has always been her weakness. The angelic blood runs particularly strong in her, but for some reason, so do her emotions. It is a strange thing, a contradiction in itself. But now, she is ruthless, and so am I, as we approach the boy. He looks up, and we pause, shocked – where are the crimson eyes? He should have crimson eyes! Instead, we have ourselves looking at the most beautiful blue eyes. Lighter than sapphire, but just as bright. And they ache with pain.

"shu?" A question, an answer, a loss, all in just one word of then, the expected reaction as he senses our presence, our celestial aura. He hisses, snarls, backs up. We step forward, he steps back. There is no escape. He has landed in an alley. And he has no demonic powers here, save for strong chakra, and what demon knows how to use that. None, save the most powerful, the Tailed-Beasts. And we could sense that. This boy…no, this demon. He senses almost like a normal being. Very, very odd.

Hinata has paused, the question clear in her movements. Is this him? Is this truly a demon? A loud snarl ripped through our thoughts, and we lunge. The creature, for this is not a boy, it is a demon, doesn't move. He sits there, just sits there, shocked and afraid. This is not typical demon behaviour. Usually they would attack. But he only looks afraid, so afraid and hurt. But we cannot pause. We must continue. We must be logical. We must be emotionless. It is our destiny.

But even destiny has its faults. The demon moves. Turns, runs, four-legged, darting through the streets of Suna, a low, fearful keening sound echoing from his, no, its throat. We chase, running. But then, another unexpected turn. The Kazekage has turned out, to see what this ruckus, this screaming is, in his perfect city. And the demon stops.

That mournful cry. "Shuu?" The blue eyes light up. He launches himself at the Kazekage. The other looks unconcerned. His sand will protect him, as it always has. So image his, and our shock, when it does nothing of the sort, when the little demon paws at the Kazekage's shirt, crying and weeping. "Shu! Shuuuu!" The leader of the whole village grasps his head, grasps the 'ai' marking on his forehead, and looks at the little demon, confusion rampant in those expressionless eyes.

We move. Silently, expertly, we make our way to the Kazekage. We bow. "Allow us to ….remove him." I speak, but it is Hinata who bows, making the gesture. The little demon clings on tighter, again with the nonsense words. "Shuu! Shuuuuu!" His face is rife with fear, but fear of what? Fear of the Kazekage leaving him? That's ridiculous. The Kazekage could never keep him!

A small cough draws our attention from our demon. Temari, the Kage's adviser. Gaara, the Kage himself, seems speechless. Nobody has ever touched him. Nobody has ever been able to touch him, and out of the blue, this kid has come, launched himself at him, dirty, afraid, and the sand has done nothing. He seems shocked, stunned.

And then, as Temari nods, and we move forward, his arms reflexively close around the blond, and a shield of sand pulls up. Temari is shocked, Gaara is shocked, we are shocked. The only one who is not shocked is the little demon. He clings tighter to the shirt, diminutive against the other man. He leans up, rubbing his cheek against the others sand-encased skin. He purrs.

The last thing I notice before Hinata drags me away, is that Gaara's arms still encircle the injured blond boy.

"shuu! Shuuu!" A large cry, seemingly directed at me, breaks me out of my deliberating. A boy. Scruffy, dirty, presumably a street rat. But what is he doing here? We only reformed the orphanages last month, and we had sent people to clear up the streets, to send boys like him to the orphanages. And he looks awful. I don't invest any emotion in it. It is simply an observation. His hair is wild, matted, and I can see blood on it. Twin sets of three scars run down his cheeks, almost like whiskers. He is covered in dirt and blood. And his eyes, so strange. They light up with joy to see me. Why? I am feared, respected at best. But this child, this innocent, he looks almost..happy?

As he throws himself at me, a momentary pang of pseudo-guilt runs through me. I don't actually feel it, but I know I should feel guilty that my sand is about to hurt a child. Then, a true emotion runs through me. The first in a long time. Surprise. Instead of the 'oof' or 'ow' or scream I expected, there is a giggle, and a warmth pressed against me I can feel even through the sand armor. And something else. A pang, a strike, something that makes me clutch at the marking on my forehead and almost double over. This feels strange. This feels strange. Temari looks at me, and I recognize worry in her gaze. But I am too wrapped up in this mental barrage. I look at the boy, so confused. What is this? What's happening?

I almost don't notice the other voice. Cold, calculating. But I do notice the tightened grip on my shirt, the fear in the boy's eyes. I am frozen, unable to move, to say, to do anything, as some strange effect runs through me. It feels like my chakra is being unsettled, changed. It feels like my head is being split apart by that scar on my forehead. I catch movement out of the corner of my eye, Temari nodding, and the two cold beings step forward, blinded eyes – but this can't be so, and I correct myself – seemingly blinded eyes, fixtated on the child, killing intent obvious.

Then I do something completely unexpected, even to myself. Some instinct I didn't even know I had snaps forth, and my arms close around the child, and a sand shield rumbles into existence, the grains blocking the pair from closing in on us. And in that moment, Temari's shocked expression tells me all I need to know. That is the childs cheek rubbing happily against the rough sand exterior of my own. And that is indeed a purr coming from him. And, in the small cocoon of sand that has enveloped me, the child and Temari, my lips have indeed curved upwards for the first time in years.

As the strong chakra presence of the two beings moves away, the shield drops, and I catch the horror-filled glance of the male as he looks back, seeing my arms encircle the child. And in that moment, my hatred spikes, and I want to kill, I want to kill. The child giggles however, and it is dissipated. He's…giggling? Why? Surely he can feel my killing intent? Oh. Maybe he's retarded. Maybe that's why he called me in nonsense, maybe that's why he's not afraid!

A crushing sense of disappointment runs over me, the urge to slaughter assuaged. No…I wanted him to want me, to need me, not to be retarded, not to be- a small hand, slender and tanned, presses itself against my face. And he smiles. Kami, that smile. It's as if all the emotion in the world is presented in that face. My own face stays stoic, but I wonder. What is this? He speaks again. "Shuu." That smile. That heartbreaking smile, and it's for me. I tuck the boy into my arms. It's only then I realise. He's not a boy – he's small yes, and the innocence he exudes along with his previous helplessness added to the illusion, but looking at his body, he is probably around the same age as me. If horribly skinny, injured and most likely weak.

I only ever have contempt for weakness. So why does this boy, no, this man, why does he make me feel! Abruptly, I release my arms. The teen drops, and I catch myself holding my breath – to no end, as he lands neatly on his feet. Grinning that grin again – I can see that being a permanently annoying fixture, he pads after me as I head back to the Kage's offices. And once again, I catch myself – why am I thinking this teen will be a more permanent part of my life?

"Gaara?" Temari enquires cautiously, unspoken questions clear in her voice. But it's not the question I expect that comes out of her mouth. "Would you like me to call a doctor?" I blink, the everpresent scowl yet again finding my face, and turn to her to ask why she thinks the kid'd need one, when I find that we are at the Kage's offies…and the little teen is being carried by Temari, seemingly asleep, but he is shivering wildly, a fever burning through him, and by the looks of Temari pouring chakra into her hands, he is getting hot to a point where it would burn someone.

I cannot help the panic that runs through me. I snatch the boy from her. The sand on my hands vibrates softly, a minute vibration that only I could feel. The boy must be dying, he's that hot. Temari's face would be comical, if I were my brother. I'm sure he would have killed for a camera at that moment. But all I can think of is the boys face, writhing in pain. And then I see it – a chakra seal, like the one on my back, flashing hard on his stomach. Something tells me to leave the inner seal alone, because the dark aura pulsing out of that thing is almost palpable.

But the outer seal…the skin is red and puffy around it. I can see irritated veins. It's poisoning him. Panicking, I draw chakra into my hand. I know seals, and this five-point is easily removed. Taking a clammy, boiling hand in my own, I have the urge to whisper an apology for the hurt. But I resist. I am the Kage. I have no need to apologise to street rats. I slam the hand into his gut. The male howls, an animalistic sound rife with pain.

The seal is gone, and the poison fading, but he'll have nasty bruises for a while. Gathering him into my arms – he is still too hot for Temari, and that is the only reason, I carry him to my room. Temari, wisely, says nothing. I lay the boy on my unused bed, tucking him in. As I move away, a hand grasps my shirt, which is already wrinkled from earlier graspings. "Shuuu." It seems to be the only word he can say.

But maybe he's just hurt. Maybe Shuu is his mother or something. A momentary pang, but of anger. Why. Why. I tear away, going to train. A harsh word is whispered to Temari, who I know is outside the door. "Watch."

\---

"Nng. Ugh! Argh!" The sounds of ninja training is almost a relief. It's something I'm used to, something that is not as unfamiliar as the rest of the day. The shouts, the cries as someone hits a little too hard…all of this is perfectly normal. As is the silence that settles over the battleground as I arrive. Nobody wants to train with me. Nobody ever wants to train with me. And the subdued anger, the sudden lack of emotion, is almost a relief from today, where that strangeness- I cut myself off, shoving the feeling down.

"Kazekage-sama…" The murmurs and bows follow my wake as I head to the large boulders I like to train by. My taijutsu skills are lacking. There's no need for them, really. The sand has always protected me. Will always protect me.

Chakra-reinforced limbs smack into the boulders, crumbling, crunching. Just enough chakra to keep myself from getting hurt, but enough also so the limbs will strengthen. Again, and again, and again. 'til everything comes out. Until I can forget about that boy.

\--

A voice distracts me. "Gaara!" I turn, intent on attacking this person, when I realise it is not coming from outside. It is coming from the communication stone that Temari, Kankuro and I each have a piece of. It is Temari's voice. "Gaara!" I touch the stone, replying. "Yes?" My voice is icy, cold. "I think you should come back. It's that kid!"

I refuse to let that panic free. "What about him?" Temari's voice, however, is full of panic. "It's his chakra!" Chakra? How strange. But surely the Jounin could sense i-except I put wards on my room so nobody could sense chakra inside it. "I'm coming." Still icy, I tell myself. Not terse. Not worried.

The sand takes me, transporting me to my room. The sight that meets me would be comical, if I felt that emotion. Temari is pressed up against the wall, fan out. All for a child? I turn my eyes onto him, and uncontrollably, I flinch. He is curled up in a ball on my bed. Visible chakra surrounds him, angry, red. And he is calling out: "Shuu! Shuuuu!" And suddenly I am angry too. Why! Why is he calling out for someone else! I saved him, didn't I? He was happy to see me!

I step forward, chakra flaring, and the blue-eyed boy looks up. And his chakra drops, and again, he launches himself at me, arms wide, smile wide. Why? Why does he have such an effect on me? I've never seen him before, but as his soft, scarred cheek rubs against mine and he purrs, I find myself holding him, patting his hair gently. I regret the last movement immediately, as dried blood comes off on my armoured hand. The disgust must show on my face, as Temari motions to the bathroom. I nod, arms still holding the boy as I move him to the bathroom, intent on cutting the tangled mop of hair that must reach mid waist.

I dump him unceremoniously in a bath that Temari must have filled earlier. He flinches, going still immediately, eyes wide in fear. Shit. I never considered the reason he was so dirty was because he didn't like the water. Suddenly, fully-clothed, I am in there with him, stroking his hair. "It's okay. I won't let you drown, I promise. But you need to get clean." Temari is shocked. Not just at the tenderness behind my words, but at the words themselves – I haven't spoken that much since the last diplomatic meeting with Konoha.

What was it about this boy? Why did I feel the need to protect him? Why? Why am I pulling the plug so the water level drops so he'll feel more secure. Why am I being gentle as I rub the sponge over his body, stopping as he flinches when I try and rub it over the bruised stomach and throbbing seal, or the reddened skin of his lower back, that looks like it's been burned, freshly healed. So I avoid those areas, instead intent on cleaning off that skinny torso, ribs prominent, and those hipbones are criminally sharp.

"It looks like someone's been abusing him."

Temari's voice whispers through the communication stone, presumably so the boy won't hear. And it's true. It does. Bruises litter him, not just the ones that I inflicted removing the seal. No scars other than the ones on his face, oddly, but there are tender patches of raw skin almost everywhere. And the blood and dirt caking the stick-thin body are staining the water brown. And yet…I cannot stop cleaning the boy.

I'm doing his hair now, and I motion for Temari to pass me the scissors. "I need to cut your hair, okay?" the blond-haired boy nods. His eyes, bright as they may be, seem to lack something. Maybe I was correct with my earlier assumption…maybe he is retarded. I gather the hair at the back of his neck, like a ponytail, then simply snip, passing the hair to Temari, who, scowling slightly, chucks it in the bin.

I warn the boy softly about the showerhead I turn on, before placing it on a soft spray, and the poofy mass of hair quietens down, turning darker in the water, but two odd protrusions are either side of his head. I press at them, expecting them to be a tangle, and they move, the boy giggles. I flinch. Ohgod, he has some kind of parasite in his hair. And I'm in the water with him. Panic momentarily consumes me, before the boy lifts his hands, spreading the hair to reveal two…ears? Yes, two fluffy, orange-hued ears, that resemble nothing I have ever seen before. Temari has the audacity to yelp. I have the decency to stop, touching them gently. The boy purrs loudly, rubbing his head back against my hand.

…who is he? What is he? And what the hell is this feeling in my chest?!

Shoving all that away for now, I continue to wash and cut his hair. He ends up with a spiky mess, not dissimilair to my own, save for the colour and length, which I purposely left long to cover those ears. Not however, that that seems to have worked, because he twitches them and the hair falls away.

We are done. Heaving myself, heavy with wet clothing, and the boy, who is far too light, out of the bath, I motion for my sister to pass us towels. She seems to have regained her composure, as she has pre-empted this, wrapping me immediately in a large, fluffy monstrosity. She heads towards the boy, but he snarls, and she rolls her eyes, chucking it at me.

"Looks like someone's got a favourite." I say nothing, wrapping the boy up skilfully, so he cannot move. He frowns, and yawns, revealing sharp teeth. Temari frowns.

"Gaara….what is he?" I shake my head. I have no idea.

\--

I find myself awake again. But instead of sitting on a rooftop, I find myself inside, watching the boy sleep peacefully. What is he…I mull the question over. Animalistic ears. Sharp teeth. Chakra that he seems to be able to control – chakra itself is rare enough, but to be able to control it with seemingly no training? Very odd. I find myself watching him. I find myself enamoured by the child.

Imagine my surprise in the morning, when he wakes up, and his blue eyes are no longer childish, but fully aware, more than that…the happiness is still there, but a darkness too.

"Good morning Shuu." Kami, that smile. But worse…he seems to expect that nonsense word, which I am now realising is a name, to mean something to me.

"Gaara. My name is Gaara."

The expression of shock on his face is almost worth the pain I can see too.

Almost.


	18. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Don't read this if you're easily triggered.

If you're reading this because you want a typical abuse story, stop here. If you're reading this because you want to know the fate of that demon-kid who you hated then stop here. And if worst of all, if you're a friend of my 'dad's, then stop here. This story is not for you. This story is for the public. All those who were entranced, deceived by his lies, his smooth voice, and the dripping, poisonous power of his justu and chakra.

That's one thing I can't dispute about my father. He was an amazing ninja in terms of power, and he had an amazing power over people – I mean, look at me. He could make even the most nervous of subjects a competent experiment, and the nicest person seem menacing. Like our photos. I was his favourite subject for those photos. The dark ones. The ones he never shared with anyone, even his most trusted 'friends'. Only me. And sometimes his new husband.

Not however, that I was the nicest kid in the world. At first, I thought it was normal, or just a game, when my dad watched me shower, when he insisted on scrubbing me thoroughly, and I mean thoroughly. I just presumed it was his way of showing he cared. Even when he pinched me gently, I just thought it was a show of affection. It was embarrassing, sure! The other 13 year old boys talked about jacking off the shower, and fantasies about girls, and seeing their friend's older sister semi-naked…and here I was, still having my cock, no...I would have called it a willy at that stage, washed by my father. Mind you, I was always different from them. They always kept a distance from me that I never understood. Demon-child, they whispered. I never understood.

The first real incident came a couple of months before Christmas, and a couple of months after my thirteenth birthday. I came home to what I though was an empty house, my pants throbbing. We had just had and explicit sexual education lesson, where we studied a video of nude people to learn about genitalia. There were, of course, nude women in it. The girls had giggled, averting their eyes, whilst the boys had sat glued to the screen, me included. Either way, I was turned on and hard, though I wouldn't learn those words for a couple of months yet, and so I decided to take a cold shower to relieve myself.

The water hit like tiny pinpricks across my skin, raising goosebumps and not alleviating my…condition one single bit. So I thought. Everyone was always on about it, jacking off I mean. Why not, y'know, have a go. I was an 'innocent' kid, to the eyes of myself but not the world, and I had never touched myself. No, my attention was busied by avoiding the punches aimed my way by others. So, as my hand strayed between my legs, the simplest of touches had me moaning, and as I gently formed my hand into a curl around my genitals, I groaned louder, causing my hand to clench tight, which sent a spasm through my spine.

I've always been a bit of a sadomasochist. Not severely or anything like that, but I do enjoy the odd bit of sexual pain, and I don't mind inflicting it either, as long as the other person enjoys it. The only person I've ever really wanted to hurt? My father. Soon enough, you'll find out why. As I looked up, I was shocked. There in the doorway was my dad, meant to be at work, instead standing there, watching me with my hand around my cock – no. Willy. As my erection screamed to be released, my dad walked over, and opened the shower door. My eyes were wide with fear – what was he going to do? Yell at me? No. Although I didn't understand it then, what he was going to do was much worse.

He spoke, in that smooth, reassuring voice that had women – and quite a few men, bending to his every whim. It sent a shiver through my spine. He had always had a vaguely sexual, womanish voice.

"That's not how you do it Na-ru-to. Let me show you."

He lingered on my name, snake-like eyes taking in the spiral on my stomach, which almost pointed to the erection below. It was throbbing wildly, like fire on my belly. But I didn't know what that meant either..yet.

"W-what?"  
he reached out, his rough hand touching my genitals. His warm digits felt so much better than my cold ones. I couldn't help but buck into his touch. Although I didn't notice it then, a smirk flickered across his own face, and his own pants were distinctly tight. He began to move his fingers, curling them around my shaft, up and down, up and down. The rest of that memory fades into a blur of pleasure, the very first time I came. I wouldn't know that word for a while yet either.

I knew it a couple of months later. We had had those…sessions for a while now, and it had even progressed to my father sucking me off. That felt even better, especially when he swallowed my ejaculation. He said it tasted saltily sweet, when I finally plucked up the courage to ask. But this time, it was different. It was after Christmas, some time in the new year. That year, Christmas had been sparse. My dad was lacking in jobs, and my other father, then heavy with child, was having to do multiple jobs to keep us going. I was old enough not to scream and cry when my stocking was filled with cheap nastiness that broke in a couple of days, or tasted nothing like it was supposed to. Or even my new set of kunai, which I had longed for for ages, was second hand and rusty.

"A lick of paint 'll sort that out, Naru." My other father said. It never did get painted. By the time we had money again, I had grown up too far, too fast to play ninja anymore. It wasn't as if I would ever get anywhere with it. No. Whilst at a young age, I was allowed to go to the academy, in the past few years the teachers had been cold. Withdrawn. They wouldn't help me with anything. And so I dropped out. The…incident hadn't helped either. But anyway, I digress, I am being distracted.

This time, he wanted me to touch him.  
"W-what?" I asked tentatively.

"You heard me. Just like I do you. Silver's out, noone 'll know." He might have been my 'father', but to me, he was always Silver, or Beetle-san. Even if he had only been around a year. I couldn't remember anyone else, except for flashes of song and a fine touch. And piercing red eyes that swimmed with sadness. He left when I was five. My dad always said he died. I think he left because of the way he looked at her. He looked the same way. Predatorily. Hungrily. It was scary. I couldn't very well deny the object of my pleasure, so tentatively I got onto my knees, and shakily undid the zipper. He wasn't wearing any pants. His willy hung out before me, so much larger and thicker then my prepubescent shaft. It was already standing to attention. His little soldier, he jokily called it. But now, he wasn't in the mood for jokes.  
"Touch it. Now." His voice, once so smooth and womanly, was rough and husky – he had been suffering from a throat infection, or so he said. Later I would find out the real reason. I reached out a hand, slowly, oh so slowly. He grabbed it, making me jump, and brought it to his shaft, curling my fingers forcefully around it. "Now pump, boyo." I did. He didn't come as easily as I did, holding out with some restraint.  
"Now, suck me." I blinked, blue eyes rife with confusion.  
"You heard me. Lick, nibble, suck me off." I soon guessed what it meant. I hesitantly followed his instructions, obedient to the end. But as his willy pulsed in my mouth, I instinctively pulled back, my father coming all over my face. I stood there, shocked, his semen dripping off me, and he took a photo of that face. I doubt you've seen it though. I doubt anyone has.

The next time, we went all the way. He didn't even bother with preparation. I came home from training one day, and he yanked down my pants, and began to suck me hard. Soon enough, I was begging for release.  
"Please dad, please!" I begged. But he would do nothing. Flipping me over, he pinned me against the wall. Now I was scared.  
"D-dad?" He said nothing, only the sound of unzipping came. I didn't know what he was doing- how could I? Fire didn't accept those things! Jeez, Konoha didn't even accept they existed! So when he plunged into me, hard and fast, I screamed. A terrible, searing pain, ripping and tearing through my insides. I sobbed, pleaded, begged, anything to stop this pain. But it faded in a couple of minutes, minutes of horrible silence. Replaced by some strange, masochistic pleasure. Soon enough, I began to move my hips, oddly entranced by this feeling. Then, he hit my spot. I yelled in pleasure, spattering the hallway with my cum. I had learned that word by now. My dad had already got me to 'talk dirty' as it were. Then, he came. I never quite got used to that feeling of cum in my insides, filling my rectum. The first time, it felt odd, odder still as it seeped out throughout the night, staining my underwear. I was so ashamed, I burnt them. I still knew a few basic jutsu from the academy days.

That wasn't all. It progressed to bondage, sadism, tying my up and suspending me. He even once tied me up and fucked me upside-down. He was a twisted soul. But then again. So am I. Not in the same we he was. No. I sit here, now. Writing my story from inside a cell. Not that they call it a cell. No. It is "Your room." I'm even allowed to stick things up on the wall. With non-toxic blutack of course. Wouldn't want me to off myself with a pin, or toxic substances, now would we. And there's chakra-seals everywhere. Kyuubi can't even flash on my stomach. Though my eyes are red still. The few times I manage to hear my demon, he jokes about them being stained with my family's blood.

I'll be surprised if this thing gets published. They'll write it off as the delusions of a crazy demon-child. If I am crazy, if Kyuubi isn't real – which he is by the way, then it's his fault. He's the one who made me like this. Cause fuck.

Noone ever told me. That being mad was this fucking fun. I can scream. I can bounce around, and it doesn't hurt, in this padded room. I can slam my head repeatedly into the wall, to stop them saying things. I can even gabble on to the other patients, the one's who just stare off into space, and really feel, for once in my life, that someone's listening to me.

The psychocrapist don't listen. Or Danzo, as he tells us to call him. To me, he'll always be doctor scum. He interrupts, saying things like, are you sure this happened, or is this the voices telling you this? I hate that. The way he calls them voices. He downgrades them. He's not a voice, he's a demon, along with his friends. A little tiny community inside my head. There's Kyuubi, and Shukaku, and Nibi, and all the others who live there. They even have their own system to collect their food. They eat my brain you see. They're very clever though. They tell me. They only eat the bits of it that I don't need. Like the jutsu. Or chakra control. They leave me the swearwords though. That's another great thing. I can swear so loud, scream at the nurses, and they don't retaliate, just ask me to calm down. I laugh. Calm? I haven't been calm, I haven't been safe, since I was twelve. After that, my father ruined any chance of the feeling of safety I ever had. It was my teacher, the only one who would teach me, who committed me here, after I told her about dad. She didn't believe me. The fact I told her about the community inside my head, and the fact that by then, I was so out of it I could barely talk probably had something to do with it. Or the fact that: "The Great Sannin would never do something like that!"

That's something else my father has gifted me with. My psychologist, Doctor Scum, says I have problems with reality. I laugh, and tell him that's certainly true. I tell the truth, and everyone else lies. So, I space myself out, making up complex storeis, alternate universes. Anything to get me out of here. He says I should stay where I am. Actually, he's saying that now coincidentally. Yelling it actually, along with the ninja, the ANBU, who are telling me they'll get me down. I can down myself. Kyuubi has promised me I'll be free after that. And for the first time in years, I am surrounded by orange, bubbling in joy and fury, and my seal is throbbing.

I can get down myself, from this stone edge. Into that elaborate trap, full of spikes and kunai and shuriken and beautiful pain.

I can get down myself.

All I have to do, is jump.


	19. Shutter

Click. Click-click-click.

The shutter on the camera takes in the scene, flickering as it shuts again and again, the flash momentarily reflecting in the glassed eyes of the corpse on the floor. Blood stains the carpet and walls, even the ceiling is not untouched, splattered with the wild spurting.A large knife, serrated and vicious, likely the one that caused the deep, jagged cuts across the boys wrists, lies near an outstretched hand.

Hidan will call the painting "Yearning for Redemption." A beautifully accurate, disturbing, hauntingly heart-aching expression on the dead boy's face, who looks, albeit with a few minor differences - enough to fool the casual eye, not dissimilair to the painter himself. A painting who is closer to his own feelings than he will ever admit.

A few minutes later, the corpse, which had been clinically dead a few minutes ago, dead in every way, sat up. The wounds are still open, but as a hand, pale and slender, delicate and beautiful even as crimson liquid drips down it, pinches the skin together, it melds beautifully, leaving not even a scar to mark the smooth expanse of porcelain. The same is done with each wrist, and the tiny nicks on his fingers from the blade have already sealed. A smile, filled to the brim with psychotic glee, breaks out, and laughter echoes through the blood-drenched studio room as the corpse, the living dead, grins manically.

The studio is secluded. The placement is far from the nearest town, a half-hour drive into wilderness. He enjoys it here. Here, where each shot of a camera captures the pain of death. Where each time he dies, he can shudder with pleasure, nobody seeing it. Where death is a choice, not an experiment.

And the stench of blood fills the place, overwhelming and strong, for no matter how many times he cleans it, he dirties it again just as fast. So much blood has stained this place over the years. Each room is still a stark white, the endless expanse of colourless is calming. As he develops each photo by hand, the only coloured room in the whole studio, the darkroom lit by red light, a dreamlike smile is on his face. His hands are focused. Skilled. In all sorts of things, those hands.

In burns, in whips, in scythes, in swords, in knifes and daggers, in bows and arrows in every weapon the world could provide. In his own way, it was his way of fighting back. He could never die. His father's use of him had chosen him that path. It had started off easy enough. He had been trained since birth, trained to fight and not give up. But his natural build had not aided him. Svelte was a polite way to put it. There was never any politeness. Weak. It was drilled into him. Be normal in public. But at home, in the training grounds, be vicious. Be a killer. Never show weakness not once.

He loved it. There was no doubt about that. His father, Jashin, was almost like a God to him. He was the epitome of everything Hidan wanted to be. Violent, Angry, Psychopathic – he saw all these sides of his father in private. Calm, Stoic, Disarming. He saw those in public. Either way, the man was ruthless. Hidan had wanted to be ruthless too. So he took himself to Orochimaru, his father's scientist. He told him his plans, asked if he had anything. Hidan didn't regret that pain. It was to be the start of many. It was an addiction. A burning addiction . An addiction to pain, to hatred, to everything about it. To death itself, forever out of his reach.

Hidan was immortal. Last year, he had stopped aging, as the potion finally took full stuck at 21. Forever and ever. He'd grown not a millimetre, aged not a day. Smooth, hairless skin, which it had been ever since he took the concoction, was pale and perfect, untouched by calluses, even though he trained daily. Hands, slender and thin, had a pinching grip not betrayed by his outward appearance. For now, they gripped at the door handle, quickly stepping out, a secret, happy smile on his face as he shut the door to his developing photographs. He would come back tomorrow to finish the job.

He stepped outside, into the night. It was dark, moon shining down, glinting off the pendant that hung round his neck. The symbol of his clan. He tucked in beneath a dark trenchcoat's buckled collar as he buckled himself into the garment. Underneath, the blood had been washed off his skin, once again smooth, untainted. If only you could say the same for his mind. That was beyond repair. A pair of sinfully tight leather pants and a mesh shirt completed the ensemble. Dangerous. That was the word to describe the man.

But dangerous didn't even come close.

\--

Those hands were skilled at other things too though. Painting, drawing, sculpting. All of these skills were excercised at his degree course, and two weeks after the original course was started, he was told that it was pointless for him – his skills were too advanced for this course. He was put among older artists, studying for a…what was it? PHD? Something along those lines, anyway. The others hated him. He knew it. Young, skilled, powerful connections and always impeccably dressed, Hidan was what they all dreamed of. Little did they know of his nighttime occupation. Or how sometimes, fleetingly, he wished he was them…able to live their life as artists, instead of assassins.

The motorbike did not roar, or rumble, or anything like that. It was as silent as the night air around them, unnaturally still and quiet, for animals had long learned that the isolated hut was bad news.

He pulled away, tires gripping the road and a smooth exit into the night as he headed towards the destination. No headlights marked his passage, and he traversed the practically empty roads with skill, eyes accustomed to darkness. After all, it was his ally. Hidan graced nobody with the word friend.

Tonight his target was one of the Uchicha clan, a small boy named Nai. Even most assasin's strayed away from killing children. Hidan had no such qualms. There pain was more acute, more wholehearted than that of adults, that of those who tried to be strong. It was a beautiful sensation, to feel a child's pain. He pulled up outside the spacious mansion, secluded in the hills. They were a minor branch of the powerful family, and Hidan had no idea why his father wanted him killed, but he didn't care. I mean, he knew the Reli and the Uchicha did not get on well, but this branch was tiny, nothing to do with the conflict. But he didn't care. The chance to kill, the chance to feel pain…he relished it.

The conflict. Both above and below the table, the families were at war. By day, abhorrent to their true nature,the Reli ran a hugely successful hospital and pharmaceutical company. By night, a drugs and serum business, selling illegal drugs on the street. The real danger lay in the second half however. Serums. Serums to make you stronger. Serums to give you animalistic features. Serums, in short, that made the impossible, possible.

But the truly impossible lay yet out of reach. Immortality. They all wanted it. And yet the only one who had it, was simply an accident. Hidan had gone to the snake to become powerful, to take a serum that would give him something to make him strong. But Hidan was yet a child, and children are always a cause of accidents – especially genetically defective ones. He tripped, banging into a case, smashing through the glass, impaling himself. The snake screamed. Not for the blood, not for the boy. But for the punishment his father would inflict.

Serums seeped, blue, green, yellow, pink, artificial colours, unnaturally bright, melding with his blood. As Orochimaru panicked, plucking out the glass, trying to bring the boy back to life…he smiled. "Fucker. Ya couldn't tell me to be careful?" He sat up. Orochimaru went pale, wondering if this was some kind of elaborate punishment – if this wasn't real. Hidan stood up. Child's body drenched in blood, he grinned. "It hurts damnit. But it feels good…"

Hidan shook his head, clearing the thoughts from his head. A slow, lazy smile worked its way onto his features. He hadn't thought about that in a long time. His bloodlust increased, he began to scale the walls of the mansion, slipping past the meagre guards, into the childs room. He stood, propped against the wall, observing the slow rise and fall of the pale-skinned boy. "Bastard. Wake up." His voice was a low drawl, disrespect clear in his voice.

The boy awoke. Hidan stepped forward.

Screams brought the guards running. But it was too late. The only thing left was the strange symbol of Jashin, painted on the floor. And blood. Lots of blood.

Hidan whistled happily, as he stalked through the streets of the city. He had done his job, but he wanted more, wanted so much more. His eyes shone red, the usual pinkish orbs dark. He wanted more. He wanted so much more…


	20. Faceless

Fingers drag across the glass, mine are ever-following.

As he steps to the side, I do, too. As blood drips from the biting, ever biting of his fingers, the pain hits me, and crimson globules hit the floor, spraying tinier splashes on the fabric of his white trousers. I say white.

They are no longer white. Scattered blood stains dirty them, some new and fresh, some old and dark, and some which he has tried to scrub out, a faded patch here and there, and threadbare strands that show where he has torn my trousers.

For they are mine, and his. They are not ours. There is not an us. There is him, and me. He and I do not share, he and I steal. One of us for one moment, and then another. He shrieks, but it is my voice that tells him where he is, the words echoing out into the empty room. That he is screaming, and fearful, and wants to go home.

But he can never go home. Not now, not ever. I won't let him. Neither can I. He won't let me. I miss them, sometimes. He doesn't. He only misses the fibrous feel of their flesh as is tears. But I miss them. I don't remember them, but I miss them. He remembers everyone, and he taunts me with his knowledge.

I cannot remember anyone, they are all shadowy figures with monotone voices and holes for eyes and mouth. He remembers each person, and how they looked with tattered mouths, and carved-out eyes. He speaks again, as the boy enters, in a lower tone this time, in the voice I have come to remember, though his features escape me

. "Avete occhi graziosi, il mio caro. Li darete io?" "You have pretty eyes, my dear…give them to me?"

He speaks Italian. I speak English, but even I have come to know this phrase. I weep,

but tears appear on his body, even as he raises the knife. It is the phrase he uses when he is tired of them, the ones I can remember. I can only see them one person at a time.

I will be on the train, the street, the house, and then I will see a face, and I will know.

That is them.

He will know too. He marks them for killing. I mark them for love. One day I dream that I will cast him out. He dreams the same thing in reverse, that he will cast me out, that he will be able to kill unrestrained by my desires.

I dream that I can love, without dooming them. For that's what I do. I doom them to him. Just as long ago, someone did to me. If they survive, that is. Most of the time he kills them, even if the knife does not. He wipes the knife in the boys mouth, spreading himself in the form of his cocktail of chemicals, onto the child. And as he takes root, the boy splutters and chokes, as he causes the boy to foam and the mouth, to writhe.

Now it is I who is stealing the moment, stroking his hair, cooing to the boy softly, the boy with brown hair, and red tattoos on his face, and he is slowing, becoming more peaceful, and his face is going, the blackness is enveloping him, and I smile. He is at peace. They are all at peace, the faceless ones.

The faces are not. He knows this, and this is why he lets me love them first. The faceless that move around are not always at peace. Sometimes I will catch glimpses of their faces, a nose, a cheekbone. The facelesses that are still are always at peace. But they are inconsequential. It is not them who matter. It is the faces. He knows this, I know this. It is the one time he and I are in agreement. They must go.

I beat him once. The boys' face disappeared before he could kill him. I made him at peace, happy, content. And then I told him to run, and he wouldn't. I showed him the other. He ran. I still remember one thing about him. He had soft hands. He remembers nothing, swears he doesn't exist, that I am deluding myself.

But I know it is the other way around, that he is deluded, that he existed, and he cannot bear it. I smile, and put the boy on my back. He is the face that got away. A name flutters through my mind. Sasuke. I clutch at it, but He rips it away.

He howls, but my body is strong now, and I am in control. The boy must be burnt. Fire is happy. It has no face. And so I lug him to the pile, my pile. There are two piles, but my pile is bigger. He almost always loses here. But there are two on his pile, and I care not for them. They were never at peace, so I killed them. Even when he stabbed them, they survived, and their faces would not go. They would not go! That is what he does to you. He stays your face. I bring a hand up to my face, and I shudder.

Then I reprimand myself. It is not my day. It is certainly not his day. It is the boy's day. I smile, and he howls again, trapped by love. I like that. It sounds like a song. He is trapped by lo~ove.

And I am then humming, a tune forming in my mind, as the fire licks and leaves ashes, and I brush them to the pile, and replace the old drum over it, so they do not blow away. He fights to wrest control, but the boy helps me keep it, faceless visage full of peace, even as it slips away, as I forget.

He laughs, and walks back to the house. And now I am following again, ever following, forced to mimic his movements, one by one. He is not me. A face said that once. A face who headed to his pile. She, for I remember that much, said that he was exactly the same as me. That he and I were a we.

Another name. Sakura.

That we are one … That is not right. Maybe that's why she never got faceless, because she was always wrong. He grins, licking the blood of his fingers, and I shudder as the metallic taste rings in my mouth.

I wrest control, barely. I don't want this.

But I cannot leave him to hurt the facelesses. They're so beautiful, so at peace.

Even the flickerers, the ones whose full faces appear temporarily. I follow them, to check they aren't a face. But they never are. There face soon disappears.

Sometimes it takes months, others years, but they go. I know this. I know as soon as I see them they aren't faces.

They don't look so…broken.

More names flick through my mind. Facelesses, I am sure of that. None of them survived. They are all dead. But who can stand against… Another name flicks through my mind. Kyuubi. I blink. He has a name? Then surely I have a na-

"Naruto." I can almost hear Sasuke's voice.

And then He steals my memories away again, and I remember nothing.

"Naruto."

I sigh, running a hand through black hair, spiked carefully at the back. I miss him.

The blond -haired man, who seemed so vacant. I mean, I know he's crazy…but you can't help loving him.

I lay eyes upon my psychiatrist, though I feel like these visits are essentially useless.

I am…happy. I miss Naruto, I do.

I miss his blond hair, his scarred face, and the childish exuberance of when he found something,

Ihis penchant for orange, I even miss that, and of course his weird expressions.

"You are losing your face!"

he would say when I smiled, and I stopped, and he would frown.

"Oh. You have found it again." His voice was so sad in these moments,

that I soon learned to smile often. But fake smiles did not work.

It had to be true happiness. But around Naruto, no,

around the one person who ever meant that much to me, that was easy enough.

And he taught me so many things. He taught how to get up, how to keep going.

How to be essentially, effortlessly happy. I gathered, from my time with him,

that he had had a worse time of it than me, but yet he would smile effortlessly, easily.

Once, I tried his saying back to him. "You are losing your face."

I said, at one particularly adorable moment. He smiled sadly.

"I can never lose my face. I am bound." He never elaborated on that.

But I gathered losing your face was the best thing that could happen to someone.

I love him. I just wish I'd realised that earlier.

"Kyuubi."

Says Kakashi, or Hatake as he insists I call him. My psychiatrist, though he looks crazier than me,

with wild silver hair, and a scarred, bloodshot eye. Mind you…

I finger one of the many scars that litter my body, everyone has scars nowadays.

Life tries to go on as normal, but tensions between the factions are increasing.

I'm sure you've heard of them. Fire, Water, Wind. 'countries' of the world we live in.

And then, then there are the cesspits of the factions, the hidden villages. Laboratories basically.

Laboratories where monstrosities are formed.

Laboratories where they mess with the ether, chakra if you will, that permeates life.

My seal throbs, and I wince.

Hatake eyes me. "You seem distracted, Sasuke." I shrug, deliberately keeping relaxed in a non-confrontational manner.

Naruto taught me many ways to defuse a situation. That was one of them. "I've got things on my mind."

Kakashi leans forward, steepling his fingers. His red, bloodshot eye tries to focus on me as well as his other, more natural eye.

"Sasuke. You cannot fix Naruto on your own. Kyuubi is too strong. He needs help. If you know where he is, Sasuke, you need to bring him in."

I nod, but my face betrays nothing of the turmoil underneath.

How could I bring him in, knowing I was damning him to a psycho ward, or tied up in straitjackets, or having drugs shot into him.

If he was crazy, if he is crazy, then so am I for loving him. His secret..I cannot betray it. No, when he showed my Kyuubi's seal,

I knew then. I ran, at the time. Ran crying and screaming. I will regret that tear on Naruto's face till the day I die.

Or visit him. The two are not mutually exclusive of course. In fact, the second probably guarantees the first.

But that seal…how did it get there? I am walking now, tugging my coat further around me.

Open shirts look good, especially when they are a deep blue with a purple trim, but damn if they aren't cold.

Tight-fitting trousers catch the eyes of a few ladies, and even a man as I walk past. But they hold no interest for me.

No, what interests me lies in the Uchicha complex, my family home, where the Hokage, left an important document.

A document, on how to trap a demon. How to give a child unnatural power, how to make him invisible, unstoppable,

how to make him strong and powerful, how to make him better. I raise a hand to my seal, that spreads over my neck slightly as I think about it.

Am I a demon-child? Am I a monstrosity? With Sharingan eyes, and a seal that hums of chakra, am I a demon? Am I a demon like Kyuubi?

I shudder, and force my thoughts away from the seal., and the scientist who put it on me.

Later, I study. Reading, Understanding.

Learning. I need to know. Need to know how to separate Kyuubi from Naruto, to keep the man I love alive.

But I'm so tired. So very tired. And as my eyes shut, for only a second, I fall asleep, if you can call it that.

For sleep is restful, a black warmth. This is far from it.

Sleep is where demons lie. And yet, I look forward to it, peversely.

Each time I sleep, his face flickers into view, the tanned body I knew so well curving round an imaginary circle,

arms over his head, hunched round in that posture I know so well, that fearful sleep, as if expecting any minute to be attacked.

And from the numerous scars littering his body, I wondered if it were true. Rips, tears, burns, the scars spoke of horrors.

But in my dreams, it's okay. I can walk forward, and touch him. I can caress his blond hair, and nuzzle the scarred cheeks.

And I can smell his wonderful scent, and breathe in the very essence of him.

And for five minutes, it's all okay.

Until he wakes up.


End file.
